I'm cheating and I hate myself for it, but I'm helpless. I can't stop. No matter how I loathe it, no matter how I try and rationalize my behavior, deep in my heart I know it's wrong and ultimately it's going to destroy me.

I should have more self-control.

They tell me, all the experts, that it's a sign of dissatisfaction. That I'm self-destructing to avoid real problems with my relationships and myself. With my life.

What problems?

I have a husband whom I adore. And who, in spite of my behavior, loves me. Where's the problem there, except for maybe a little too much familiarity? A certain lack of spontaneity? I say it's comfortable knowing every Friday, week in and week out, means steak and sex. And every Saturday means discussing finances after pizza and milkshakes with the kids. Oh, and sex. Every Sunday means clipping coupons from the paper and dissecting the finances again, taking into account how much we've overspent. And sex. What's wrong with a little predictability? Predictability = stability. Security.

Doesn't it?

So, if the problem isn't with my relationship, it must be with me. My self-image. My psyche. My karma. Maybe my inner child or my insecurities. Except, I like myself, mostly. If I don't count the gray starting to creep into my hair. Or the faint lines etched into my forehead and between my eyebrows. If I look past the markings of time and look at me, I'm happy with myself.

I'm upbeat and cheerful, patient and tolerant, even if I do obsess over stupid things like penmanship and the way clothes go on a hanger. Even if I do turn ominously silent on occasion. Even if I do keep secrets. After all, nobody's perfect. Especially me. I might hate what I'm doing, but mostly, I like myself.

This makes for a secure person, doesn't it?

So, if the problem isn't with my relationship or myself, it must be with my life. Only I don't think so. I have a good life. A wonderful family, even if they do drive me to the edge of sanity on a regular basis.

I have two jobs, one that I like and that pays, though not nearly enough. Another that doesn't pay well (okay, at all), but I don't simply 'like' this job, I love it. Passionately.

So what if the people in my life don't understand this passion, this intensity? As long as I understand it. Most people can't find one job that they enjoy - and I've got two. Admittedly, one is stressful-- deadlines set in stone on a daily basis-- and the other can be frustrating and emotional, with rejection built in. But that's the sort of thing that builds character.

Isn't it?

So . . . if it's not my relationship, myself or my life, where does this self-destructive behavior come from? Could it be something as simple as-- pleasure? Tinged with a little guilt, maybe?

Y'know, that may be it. Guilty pleasure.

Good. Now that that's figured out, I have an assignation to keep, a secret midnight meeting with the object of my desire--Ben & Jerry.

Anyone got a spoon?